Snow White
by Eiserne
Summary: Once upon a time, a queen wished for a child who was as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as ebony. Be careful what you wish for. AU. AxI
1. Prologue

_Hellsing_ belongs to Hirano Kouta. _Snow White_ belongs to the Brothers Grimm.

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><p>xx<p>

**Prologue **

xx

_Come, come! Let me spin you a story._

_Once upon a time, and what a time it was!_

_In the middle of winter, a queen sat embroidering under an ebony window. She pricked her finger on her needle and, wanting to stanch the bleeding, pressed her wound on the pile of snow outside. Together the glistening red blood, virgin white snow, and sturdy ebony frame made such a pleasing picture that she wished, without thinking, for a child who was as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as ebony._

_An innocent wish it was, that she forgot soon after._

_A forgotten wish it was, that the Devil granted!_

xx

There had been a royal birth.

Or had there? The people were not sure. A steward confirmed a while later that the queen had given birth to a prince, but that only increased the suspicions of the populace. Where, then, were the fanfares? Where were the cheers? Where was the joyous celebration that normally marked such good news? The king was nowhere to be seen. The air around the palace was thick with tension.

It was unsettling. Rumors spread. "Perhaps the baby was stillborn," fretted a woman.

"Nay, I bet he is deformed somehow," a man asserted.

A grocer shook his head. "It could be that he is simply in bad health."

"Could it be the queen who is in danger?" another whispered anxiously.

And one distinct voice spoke the truth. "Or perhaps, the child is cursed."

Everybody turned to the speaker. He was quite an intimidating man in a monastic garb with deep creases on his forehead and a scar on his left cheek. His eyes were guarded by the gleam of light reflecting off his glasses. A cross bounced off his chest.

"The child is cursed," the man repeated. "There be an evil in the castle."

"Now, Father," someone laughed nervously, "That's quite a statement to make!"

"I only say what I know," the priest growled. "Calamity will befall this land."

The citizens twittered amongst themselves. "Aren't you going to do anything?" someone else beseeched.

They gaped in astonishment when the priest merely cackled. "No, I don't think so. Not yet. It won't be fun to dispose of just yet…I like a challenge, see."

He lumbered away intoning the Holy Scripture under his breath. The crowd moved hurriedly out of his way. They saw him go as far as the bell tower, when suddenly he was not there at all. There was no trace of him save for the loose leaves of the Bible flying in the wind.

There had been no wind that day.

xx

_There had been no wind that day._

_The queen, the poor thing, she was inconsolable. No one could calm her, not her doctors or nurses or maids. She was still weak from the delivery, but was sitting up in bed with the covers drawn to her chin, shuddering and gasping and pupils erratic. Cowering, she was, from a bundle of blankets at her feet. She refused to touch it. Oh, how she loathed to touch it!_

_Enter the king. He saw the state of his wife and rushed to her side. "What is it, love? What has happened?"_

_She dissolved into tears again. "The child…the child…"_

_The king inquired, "What of the child?"_

_She pointed a shaking finger at the bundle. It wriggled and disclosed itself. A maid shrieked, a physician sucked in his breath, the king dropped his jaw and all watched with transfixed horror the sight unfolding before them._

_First came out arms that would have been like any other baby's arms had the skin not been _as white as snow_. Next peeked out a tuft of hair that was _as black as ebony_. Finally, his face, and a charming face it would have been, a lovable face, if not for the eyes! Oh, you have never seen anything more terrible than those eyes, those eyes _as red as blood_. They were a demon's eyes, a monster's eyes, holding malice, speaking of death, whispering of chaos._

_He wailed. His audience was struck dumb with shock. The queen sobbed harder._

_Ah, don't be feeling sorry for the queen._

_It's her fault she wasn't careful with what she wished for._

"Oh, dear God in Heaven…I have given birth to the son of the Devil!"

xx

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><p>Take some Hellsing and Snow White and some of my darkly romantic fantasies, and what do we have? A story in the making. I hope you all will enjoy the things to come. Chapter one will be out soon, or so I dearly hope. Thank you for reading, and please review!<p> 


	2. The Prince

_Hellsing _belongs to Hirano Kouta. _Snow White_ belongs to the Brothers Grimm.

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><p><strong>Snow White<strong>

xx

**Chapter 1**

**The Prince**

xx

It was the end.

God did not answer his prayers. The king was not in the castle. There was no falling star to wish upon. The only thing falling from the sky was snow, and he tried to catch the white nothings dancing around him, desperate for one last hope. A flake landed on his palm, indistinguishable from his skin, and it did not melt. He could just make out the perfect six-pointed crystal. It was all he got. His fingers closed on it, his lips moving soundlessly, forming words solely the wind brushing past him could hear.

"Young prince, your tea is ready."

It was not enough.

The child turned from his place on the balcony to face the inevitable. He opened his hand, letting the snowflake blow away to join the rest of its fellows. He had nothing now, nothing. He walked back into the room, his expression placid as he received his sentence.

"Come here, my dear. Have some tea with me," said the Queen.

He simply stared at her, his stepmother. His eyes shifted to the small table in front of her, upon which a teapot and a cup sat innocently.

"There is only one cup," he said.

"An error on my part, do not worry. The maid will bring another," said the Queen, but she did not order anything of the sort to the maid she had spoken of, a tremulous thing who was hovering by the door. "Do come and sit down. It is a special blend of mine. I made it especially for you."

He had been afraid of that. A ghost of a smile graced his lips. "How kind of you, mother."

"Good boy," the Queen cooed with false sweetness. She gestured to the maid. "Pour him a cup."

The maid was quaking madly. The teapot rattled in her grip. The Queen hastily gave the maid an admonitory slap on the arm, and she managed to pour the contents into the cup without slopping it over. He sat down before it. Boiled water and dried plant matter. Seemed like any other cup of tea.

It smelled like death.

"Now, whispered the Queen, "Drink up. Hurry, before it gets cold."

The child fingered the handle of the cup, picked it up. He raised it halfway to his mouth, and then paused. His eyes were very wide and very red. If his stepmother had cared the slightest, she might have noted the sadness and disappointment in them. She did not, of course. The Queen merely flinched when those eyes bore into hers.

"What is it?"

His voice was very quiet. "Why do you do this, mother? What have I done?"

"What are you saying, my boy?"

His crimson orbs wavered in their sockets as though threatening to spill blood.

"Is it my eyes, my hair, my skin? Or is it something else? There must be something I have done wrong, something I have done to make you all wish the worst for me. I can see it. You, father, my deceased mother, the nobles, the servants, the clergy—" _even God _"—all of you, when I have been naught but living—tell me, what did I do?"

The Queen let her composure slip. "I—well—that is—" She coughed and regained her doting mother sham. "Whatever are you talking about, my dear? I merely want to serve you tea."

That had been his final act of desperation. The child felt his breath leave him with a shudder. So this was it, then...

_And something else filled his eyes..._

"Now, stop with these odd questions, and enjoy your tea. Drink up. Drink it right now."

They were watching him. Urging, imploring him, to drink the tea.

It was not as if he had any other choice.

He raised the cup to his lips.

And slowly, drank the poison to the last drop.

The cup fell from his numb fingers and shattered on the floor. He doubled up, strangled gasps escaping him as the poison constricted his throat. He choked. His heartbeat slackened as the corrupted blood, burning hellishly, worked its way though his veins and seized his muscles. A series of spasms attacked him, each one more violent than the former, until his whole body stiffened, and he slumped over the table with a thud. He did not move.

There was total silence for several moments.

"Is he dead?" breathed the Queen.

She had to poke the maid to get her going. The terrified maid stumbled towards the prince and felt for his neck. It was cold. There was no pulse. "I t-think he is d-d-dead, Y-Your Highness—"

The Queen jumped up with a triumphant shriek and promptly kicked the body of her stepson from its chair with the sharp toe of her shoe. It landed lifelessly on the floor. "At last!" She dug a foot underneath his body and kicked it again over onto its back, so that he was staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling. "The demon is dead!"

"W-w-what should we d-do with the b-b-body, Your Highness?" the maid stammered.

"_You_ will bury it in the woods before the king returns. But stay here, I will send for a sack and shovel."

"I-I can—"

"Don't be ridiculous," the Queen snapped. "Don't you think people are going to be suspicious when they see you jittering all over the place?"

"B-b-but—"

"What, are you scared of being alone with it? It's the _dead_ body of a _child_, dear. It can't hurt you." She nudged an arm for good measure, chafing it against the broken shards of the cup. It felt little more than a stump. "See? Stay here, lock the door, and do not let anyone in!" The Queen was gone before the maid could say another word.

The air was static.

The maid bolted the door and stayed there, shrinking away from the corpse. She was sure the chills down her spine had less to do with the winter wind passing through the balcony. She glanced at the dead prince. A part of her felt sorry for him. He had been so young, after all. Only seven years old. But it had to be done. The Queen had promised her a handsome sum. If she finished the job properly and held her tongue, she would receive enough money to live peacefully in the countryside for the rest of her days.

Anyway, everyone knew that something had been off with the prince. Rumors were abounding about him. How the former queen had been overcome with grief at having produced such an abomination that she developed a fever, and expired within three days. How the king had resented his son, and had reluctantly named him his heir. How he had had to wait until a cloudy day for the event because the baby kept howling whenever he was let out in the sun. And there were many other inauspicious stories. It was for the good of the kingdom that they got rid of him. There was a reason they called him—

The maid blinked. Had she just seen a hand twitch?

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. It couldn't be. Surely not.

Surely it had been a trick of the light...

The maid gulped. A dead child, she told herself. He is a dead child. She inched forward. The body lay stiff and cold as it should. She moved closer. It remained unmoving. The maid was reassured by this. It had indeed been a trick of the light. She leaned over the face. Yes, nothing was out of place with the corpse whose skin was as white as snow, hair was as black as ebony, and eyes were as red as blood. He was dead.

Except, dead people's eyes aren't supposed to gleam with hatred, are they?

_There is a reason they call him—_

She barely had time to scream before a broken shard stabbed her throat.

The "corpse" sprang to his feet. The small white hand clutching the shard swiped ruthlessly at the maid's throat with inhuman strength, tearing apart her trachea. Blood gushed out, spilled down her torso and stained her clothes and his hand red. Her shocked eyes eternally reflected the image of her undertaker, who had come for her under the guise of a murdered child, who had a wide grin of maniacal fury splashed across his visage.

—_Dracula. _

"The end of you," he rasped.

Her head hanging from her neck like a mangled marionette, the wretched woman sank into the pool of her own blood. She writhed for a moment, then stilled.

The shard had been sharp enough to be lethal. Too bad. A bit duller and he would have relished her prolonged death throes. He let it drop.

He breathed. He flexed his fingers. He shook his head.

He was _alive. _How was he alive?

The bitter residue of the poison lingered in his mouth. His voice did not come out right and his motor control was unsteady. He ached all over, particularly where his stepmother had kicked him. But he was alive. The Queen had failed.

Madness consumed his features again, yet he forced himself to calm. That foolish, _foolish _woman would receive her due tenfold, just not today. He would play with her a while longer. And when Judgment Day came, she would snivel at his feet begging for mercy.

He looked at the dead maid. What a mess. It would take forever to clean up. He contemplated on how he should dispose of her. Maybe he should take a leaf out of his stepmother's book and bury her in the woods. Or...

He kept looking at the dead maid. Or more correctly, the blood around her.

It was...enticing. The vivid color, the pungent smell...he looked at his hand. Soaked red.

He wondered how it would taste.

He lowered his head, tongue sliding out to...taste...the...

The child jerked back in horror. What was he thinking? How could he have thought—how could he have wanted to—to—

The enormity of his situation hit him hard. Here he stood, in this bloody chamber, half-splattered with gore, regarding a ghastly crime scene without one speck of panic. He realized he had just survived a poisoning, killed a person, and had been about to _drink blood_, all in quick procession, as if they were most natural things to do, as if he were not a child seven years old.

As if he was a _monster_.

Quite suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed.

It hurt. His chest hurt so much but he kept laughing and laughing, and it was not pleasant. He laughed until he thought he would collapse again, until he thought he would drop back dead. He was so consumed with mirth that he did not notice the single snowflake that had wafted into the room and rested on his sable locks.

No wonder they hated him. All of them—his stepmother, father, deceased mother, the nobles, the servants, the clergy, even God, even Death—no wonder they were repulsed by him! It was for that reason, wasn't? Because he was a demon, a freak! A monster!

Because he was, as they called him, Dracula. Son of the dragon, son of the Devil.

Ah, he understood now. He understood perfectly. Dracula fell to his knees in laughter and pain. Yes, that was how they had seen him all this time...very well! A monster they wanted, a monster he would be.

And as his laughter continued to ring out, with only the dead to hear, he did not realize that perhaps, just perhaps, it sounded like a child's sob.

xx

_One death in exchange for one life._

_One life in exchange for one death._

_The Devil grants his wishes._

_He is, after all, Dracula. Son of the dragon, son of the Devil._

_Dracula is both child and monster._

_But someday he will cease to be the former._

_And tell me, reader…what do you think will happen then?_

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><p>I had meant for this to be longer and updated quicker, but things happen. Well! I hope you have enjoyed the chapter! I have tons of things I want to write; it's just the matter of me being patient and diligent. Which I am not, but I do try. Please stay tuned for the chapters to come.<p>

This chapter is dedicated to my wonderful reviewers. Thank you all, thank you so much! I hope not to disappoint.

Please review! I would love to hear your thoughts.


	3. The Visitor

_Hellsing _belongs to Hirano Kouta. _Snow White_ belongs to the Brothers Grimm.

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><p>xx<p>

**Chapter 2**

**The Visitor**

xx

Years passed. Seasons came and went. The child grew.

He was thirteen years old now. A beautiful boy, but it was a terrible beauty. Like how a sleeping dragon with its glittering scales might be beautiful before it opened its hungry eyes. He had those hungry eyes. They gleamed as if he was a predator cornering his prey, drowning his victims in their sanguine essence. One could not meet them without recoiling. When he smiled, his lips curled as though he was allowing a brief indulgence before smiting whatever was unlucky enough to cross his path.

It was dusk. The moon hung as a perfect white disk against the indigo sky. He gazed at it, entranced. Strange things happened under the full moon, he knew. Tonight would be a fine night for witchery, for madness, for bloodshed.

"A beautiful night," Dracula murmured.

He snipped a rose.

He was tending to his rose garden. It was located in a secluded area behind the castle near the woods, filled with large, luxuriant flowers. Too luxuriant. Almost wanton, with the way those thick, florid petals pursed like a whore's mouth. And none could explain the odd sense of foreboding that came over even as one was lured by their exuberance. Passersby would feel that the great sharp thorns elongated to cling to their sleeves, or that the flowers bore a sinister resemblance to a throbbing organ.

Alluring yet repelling. Rather like him, actually.

Those who deserved to handle these roses were only those who were prepared to comprehend the entirety of their being. Those who would not cringe before their lurid color. Those who could bear their wicked thorns. Those who could stand the ugly truth beneath their soil.

Dracula thought this, because of what he had heard at dinner.

"You will soon be of age," his father had said. "And it will be time for you to take a wife." Then the man had suggested that he start to court some of the noblewomen.

Dracula had barely resisted plunging his fork into the king's winking eye. As if there was anyone among those bimbos that was worthy of his attention, let alone could last ten minutes in his presence.

If he were ever to acknowledge a woman, she would have to be God's masterpiece. Dracula would pluck her out of His hands. She would have to be brave, to stare directly into his eyes. She would have to be unyielding, to endure his bouts of pique. Commanding, to tame the monster within him, and confident, to never waver in her decisions. She would be a proud creature unafraid of the night, who would revel in her viciousness as much as he did his.

He desired someone who could put up with his all, mano a mano. Not in those cowardly ways the Queen stooped to, truly deplorable. Dracula scowled and snipped another rose.

They were beyond salvation. It was a particularly gelid winter this year; the roses would not make it. Already they were sheathed in sheer skins of frost. Within this evening they would turn black and die, better cut them now than let them go limp on their stems. Dracula took the one he had just cut and held it up to the moon. It had a sort of glacial glamour to it. He enjoyed how the ice shimmered in the light.

He imagined presenting this rose to the average female in court.

"_For you, my lady."_

The besotted female would take it with a blush, a giggle or two, maybe bat her eyelashes—to drop it immediately afterwards, perhaps in shock at the icy, blackened edges of the bulbous blossom, its decaying scent.

Ah, but his chosen lady, the woman that fulfilled his requirements, she would not, would she? She would lay it in her hand, unflinching, even as its petals spilled out between her fingers like the sinews of a dead heart or the seeds of a burst pomegranate.

Yet such magnificence—if it existed at all—did not belong beside him. It belonged in dreams, in daylight, in God's realm—places he could not reach—and bitterly Dracula tossed the flower away, knowing that there was no happily ever after for a monster.

He sighed audibly. He must be very bored, for his thoughts to fall to such depths.

It was a beautiful night, and under the witching moon, the prince pruned his roses. He wished something would happen.

He snipped a third rose.

_Third time's the charm._

Something moved at the edge of his peripheral vision. Dracula turned towards the woods, eyes narrowed.

A figure on horseback trotted up the clandestine road through the woods and by his garden. Dracula frowned. The courtiers knew not to intrude on his personal space. They usually stayed away from this direction, unless they were stupid, lost, or suicidal. Friend or foe, this visitor would have to have a good excuse or meet the business end of his shears.

He came out from behind his rosebush, dark hair falling into his eyes and shading their red, for he did prefer the element of surprise. The man on the horse pulled up in front of him.

"Good evening," said the visitor.

Dracula smiled thinly. "Good evening," he said back.

This formality was a precursor to the pause that followed, in which the two assessed each other. Dracula lowered his shears, intrigued. This man seemed a complete outsider. He had on a dusty traveling cloak, the hood shadowing his face, though upon it he wore something that reflected the moonlight—a monocle.

"Can you tell me how to get to the front gate?" said the mysterious visitor. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with these grounds."

"You must have come from afar," Dracula observed. _To not recognize who I am._

"Well, I've been traveling for quite some time. It's been long since I've been here."

"Long since?" Dracula repeated curiously.

The man did not elaborate. Instead he appeared to look around his surroundings, which, other than the small rose garden, consisted of only the wild and unkempt shrubberies that typically marked the abandoned recesses of a land. He gestured to the roses. "Bit odd to have a garden here, isn't it? Nice flowers, though. Are you their keeper?"

Dracula raised an eyebrow at the change in subject but said, "Yes."

"Why are you cutting them? Seems a waste."

Sardonically amused that someone had called his roses "nice", Dracula showed the visitor the third one he had cut, twirling it in his fingers and setting sparkles off its frosted leaves. "As you can see, they are soon to die. Why? Do you want them?" He had asked that out of jest, so was rather taken aback when the man nodded in affirmative. Dracula laughed. "You do? Whatever will you do with dying roses?"

"They may be saved, if they're brought in and put in a vase," said the man seriously. "If you don't care, then do you mind if I took them with me?"

He might have forsook them, but still, Dracula did not give out his roses to just _anybody_. His eyes glowed slightly underneath his fringe. The man's horse pawed at the ground nervously.

"You make strange requests, stranger. Tell me why I should oblige you."

The man chuckled. It occurred to Dracula at that point that this man had the air of, say, an old butler who had dealt with many a cantankerous master.

"The lady I serve—she told me she would like flowers, for her sick father." The man sobered. "Yours are the only ones I have seen on my way. It might cheer her up if I bring them with me, even if they are frozen."

Dracula had to suppress a sneer. It was a ludicrous idea that anyone in their right mind would want his roses beside their sickbed. Tantamount to wishing them death, that was. And he certainly did not fancy them being given to what would most likely be a snooty noble and his prissy daughter.

Although...this man seemed decent enough, genuinely concerned for his masters...they may be more than he gave credit. Besides, what were the chances of meeting a stranger in his garden under the full moon, who happened to ask for roses?

Perhaps he could appease, just this once.

Dracula shrugged. "Alright. Take them."

The man inclined his head; his monocle flashed briefly. "Thank you, young man."

The prince gave him the third rose, and half a dozen more of those he had been planning to clear. Then he told the man how to get to the front gate, go straight and turn left at the walls. The visitor put them in his saddlebag, thanked him again, and went on his way.

He would lose two of the roses by the time he reached the gate.

Three would be lost on his return home.

One would be dropped who knows where.

The last rose remaining would end up in the hands of a girl, who would look at with astonishment the icy, blackened, bulbous, odorous blossom, its petals spilling out between her fingers like the sinews of a dead heart or the seeds of a burst pomegranate.

The butler would apologize. "I should have kept a better eye on them."

And the girl would say, "That's okay, Walter. Where did you find this?"

She did not drop the rose.

Dracula, many miles away in his godforsaken garden, did not know this yet. As soon as the visitor departed, he sheared every one of his roses, every single one, so that the earth was tainted with their shriveling crimson. Their ice crushed under his feet as the bones of the dead would, their petals swept thickly by his feet as a sea of blood would. Underneath this carnage the rotting corpses of people whose breaths he had quenched, suffocated in their resting place of tangled roots.

Clouds hid the moon. Snow started to fall.

He laughed.

It was indeed, a beautiful night.

xx

Around the time the prince was having his conversation with the visitor, the Queen was pacing in her chamber.

It had been six years since her thwarted attempt to murder the prince. During those years she had dared not lay a hand on him except in the most indirect of manners. She still shuddered to remember that fateful day, when she had walked into the room and found not a dead boy but a dead maid and he looming over the body with an insane grin on his face.

She had been too shocked to scream. The child had cast his diabolical eyes on her, and said only one thing.

"She has committed suicide."

There an unspoken pact had been made. The Queen had come to her senses then—she had fled, chucking the sack and shovel at him.

The next day, the prince had started a rose garden.

She had a good idea what transpired in that garden, a very good idea indeed. What else could explain where her men disappeared to? The spies she had sent, gone. The assassins she had dispatched, gone. She had even commissioned priests—gone as well. And all the while they went missing, those hideous flowers in the prince's garden prospered.

The Queen bit her nails. Ooh, how she longed to get rid of that brat!

She had despised him from the moment she saw him. She had come to court and married the king when the boy was five years old, and even then he had been a creepy little thing. Far too quick and clever for his age, he fixed his gaze as if he could see through her mind. Add on his unholy appearance, odd habits, and rumors, and she could not picture living a peaceful life with him around.

She had consulted her enchanted mirror. "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, what does the future with the young prince hold for me?"

The mirror was a short, squat thing, set in an ivory frame studded with topaz. It spoke in a German accent.

"Meine Königin, he will be the death of you."

So she had decided to kill him.

And she had failed. Spectacularly. How was she supposed to know he would be so _indestructible_?

The Queen secretly practiced witchery, and she was well-versed in poisons. The recipe she had prepared for the prince had been foolproof. A spoon of hemlock, a pinch of belladonna...she had been sure it would work...and it _had _worked, to a point, had it not? Nobody could fake death like _that._

"So how is he alive?" the Queen had asked her mirror hysterically.

"He will not be killed so easily, meine Königin," the mirror had said. "They call him Dracula for a reason. He is nearly the Devil incarnate."

"_Nearly_?"

"Not completely," the mirror had defined unhelpfully.

Now, as if having to deal with an undying demon for a stepson and the heir to the throne had not been distressing enough, today at dinner the king had mentioned about the boy's matrimonial matters. She had nearly choked on her asparagus. What, and ensure a generation of red-eyed damnations? Was the king senile?

"It is useless to depend on the king. He is weak and lily-livered. You must make your own plans," the mirror advised.

The Queen moaned. "What should I do? The kingdom is doomed."

"You are overreacting. The prince is yet thirteen. There is time."

"But how will I eliminate him, once and for all?" She continued to pace to and fro, struggling for a solution. The mirror kept silent.

Suddenly it said, "You will need to hire a professional."

The Queen snorted. "A professional? We have had plenty of those already."

"Go to the king. He has a visitor with him."

"A visitor?"

"He may have the answers you seek," said the mirror cryptically, and nothing more.

The Queen left her chamber and hurried towards the royal reception room. She had turned the corner, when she saw a man exiting the room. He carried a dusty traveling cloak. He looked to be in his mid-sixties, but despite his apparent age, he had a lithe figure and a full head of dark hair, tied back. He wore a monocle over his left eye. The man caught her watching, bowed, and set off.

The Queen strode over to her husband. "Who was that, Your Majesty?"

"Why, that was the Hellsing family's butler. He has brought wonderful news. The Hellsings have returned to this land at last!"

xx

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><p>Sorry for the delay. Next up, chapter three, the moment has finally come. My readers and reviewers, thank you all very much, always, for your kind support. Stay tuned!<p> 


	4. The Girl

_Hellsing _belongs to Hirano Kouta. _Snow White _belongs to the Brothers Grimm.

* * *

><p>xx<p>

**Chapter 3**

**The Girl**

xx

The coach clattered to a halt at the front gate. The driver jumped down and opened its door, and a middle-aged man came out, followed by a young girl. The man did not bother to wait for the girl and went ahead without a glance. The girl trailed behind him, stumbling a bit in the snow, pulling her cloak close to her small frame and shooting the man mutinous glares.

"Hurry up, Integra."

She sighed, "Yes, uncle."

She looked up as she walked. The castle was a grand structure, yet somehow had a forbidden, desolate atmosphere about it, even in the bright sunshine. She could very well imagine it to be a castle a dragon kept to lock its maiden away.

Integra had not wanted to come here. She would much rather have stayed at home and read books aloud to her sick father. The message from the Queen inviting Sir Arthur Hellsing to afternoon tea, however, could not be ignored. He could not go, of course, and her uncle had volunteered to attend in his stead. Integra had seen the look on her uncle's face—of poorly concealed intrigue—and had decided, for the good of the Hellsing name, she should accompany him.

"_You_? What business do _you_ have in the castle?" Uncle Richard had demanded spitefully.

"Oh, let her go with you, Richard," her father had wheezed. "It'll do her good to get some fresh air and have a look around the place."

Her uncle had grumbled about her being a meddlesome girl who would only encumber him. He had consented in the end, through her father's insistence—though she suspected it had just as much as to do with the way Walter had been meaningfully flexing his wrists.

"A wise decision you have made, my lady," the butler had commended as she prepared for the outing.

"I don't trust Uncle Richard," said Integra plainly. She squinted at her glasses, blew on them, and cleaned them with a handkerchief. "I want to keep watch on him and make sure he doesn't try anything." She put them on. Her blue eyes regarded her caretaker seriously through the lenses. "Take care of father for me while I'm gone, Walter."

"But of course," Walter pledged. Then he saw a pouch on her dressing table. "What's that, Integra?"

"This?" She loosened the drawstring, and abruptly the smell of a withered rose pervaded the air. The pouch was filled with black petals. "The rose you gave me yesterday. It seemed a shame to throw it away, when you so kindly brought it back for me."

She closed the pouch and pocketed it. Walter's smile had become fixed. "Oh. Are you, er, planning to do something with it?"

Integra polished her silver cross and fastened it onto her cravat. "Not really. Though I was thinking of visiting the garden you told me about—"

"Don't go there," Walter said sharply.

Surprised at his tone, Integra swiveled around in her seat away from the mirror to stare at him. "Why? Walter, what's wrong?"

His expression had been frightfully grim. "Forgive me, my lady. This may be my misjudgment, but I have a bad feeling about that place. Last night when I was there—call it an old man's intuition—I could tell that, whoever—or whatever—it was that I met, it did not bode well."

"What are you saying?" Integra breathed. "Are you saying that—that there was something _evil_ in that garden?"

"Whatever it was," Walter held her eyes firmly, "I advise you not to venture into that garden, Integra. There are things happening in those grounds that may be beyond your capacity. Look after yourself, and stay safe. Do you promise?"

"Yes, Walter," she had reassured. "I promise. Don't worry."

Thus it was with vigilance that Integra entered the threshold of the castle. In retrospect, it had been the sheer gravity in Walter's attitude that had unsettled her the most. Integra had known the butler since forever, and she had never seen him that anxious for her before. He knew better than anyone that she could handle mostly anything, so for him to act as such was a rather foreboding sign.

"Hurry _up_, Integra," Richard snapped, jolting her out of her musings. "Do not dawdle. Why I must be stuck with a troublesome wench like you—"

"Language, Uncle Richard. You don't want your reputation to be tarnished by your uncouth mouth barely three days after our return, do you?" Integra said lightly.

Richard appeared as if he would slap her. He could, if he wanted to, since neither her father nor Walter were present. However, because quite a lot of people were bustling about, and because servitors were coming to escort them, he settled with simply casting malevolent looks at her. Integra pointedly took no notice of this.

Subconsciously she felt for the pouch of petals inside her cloak. Even with what Walter had said, the rose gave her an odd sense of security.

"No, thank you," she said to the servant who had come to take her cloak. It was drafty in the castle. She and her uncle were led up a flight of stairs and through several corridors. Everywhere she could see was furnished with intricately carved furniture, embroidered upholstery, and gilded ornaments. This grandeur, to Integra, was for naught. There was heaviness to her surroundings that weighed down on her, as though she would have to peel off the exterior and expose the ruse underneath. Nothing in this castle seemed true. She wondered if it had ever been truly lived in.

At last they arrived in the Queen's apartments, which were also extravagantly decorated, with sunlight streaming inside. In the salon, ladies and gentlemen of the court were already lounging. Their entrance garnered considerable buzz, the courtiers leaning forth and towards one another to whisper about the newcomers. Here were the elusive Hellsings, back in the country after more than ten years abroad. _"Is that Sir Hellsing?" "Who is that girl, his daughter? Why is her skin so dark?"_

_Oh God. _Integra stifled a long-suffering sigh.

"Ah, Sir Hellsing, I presume?" A woman waltzed up to them, bedecked in an excess of lace and powder and bijouterie that Integra had a hard time figuring out how she could move at all. "It is a pleasure to meet you. Welcome, welcome!"

Uncle Richard bowed. So this must be the Queen, then. Integra was unimpressed. The woman was beautiful, she supposed, but had the same sort of superficiality that she had perceived from the castle. The Queen reminded her of her uncle, somewhat, in how they held a carefully lacquered persona of morality. "He is not _Sir_ Hellsing," Integra spoke up. "The one who carries that title is my father, Sir Arthur Hellsing. This is his brother, Richard Hellsing."

Richard might as well have swallowed a lemon. Integra shot him a glare. _Was this what you were seeking, uncle? A few minutes of fame, taking advantage of my father's position? How petty of you._

"My, who is this darling thing?" The Queen said with strained gaiety, reaching out to touch her hair. Integra stepped out of the way and then, so as not to seem rude, curtsied.

"Integral Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing, Sir Arthur Hellsing's daughter, Your Highness."

"My niece, Your Highness," Richard put in quickly. "Precisely what I was going to tell her, Integra. Now," he said through gritted teeth, "why don't you run along to your peers and introduce yourself to them, hmm?" He pushed her. Integra unwillingly complied, knowing it would be unwise and useless to aggravate him further in this lot. She kept an eye on him, though.

Talk broke out as people surrounded her uncle for a recount of their travels. Integra walked over to the table where children her age sat. They looked curiously at her.

Integra was eleven years old, but the way she held herself—like she had a wall of iron around her—made the average person think twice before speaking to her. This seemed to be the matter with her table, as nobody was attempting to strike up a conversation with her.

"You are a Hellsing, then?" A girl finally asked Integra. "Where have your family been all these years?"

"Abroad," Integra said simply, preoccupied with her lookout.

"What exactly is it that the Hellsings do, anyway?" a boy asked.

The Queen was conversing animatedly with Uncle Richard. Integra shifted to the speaker. "We're knights."

"Knights!" another girl snorted. "That's not very high up."

Integra was about to retort, when she heard the Queen say, "If I may have a word with you in private, Richard?"

There it was—a conspiratorial spark in her uncle's eyes, and in the Queen's as well. Integra frowned. Something was definitely up.

They were leaving the salon. Integra stood up. "Excuse me," she muttered, before rushing out after her uncle and the Queen.

They were too fast for Integra, who was trying to muffle her footsteps and stay inconspicuous at the same time. She saw them rounding a corner. Yet when she followed them, the hallway was empty. She lurched back in bewilderment.

Gone! But where to? Integra did not see any other passages or doors. It was as if they had...vanished into thin air.

_There are things happening in those grounds that may be beyond your capacity._

She bit her lip. They surely must have gone _somewhere_...

Fifteen minutes later, however, Integra was forced to acknowledge that she had lost them. Worse, she herself was lost, and wherever she was, it was completely different from the rest of the castle. It was mystifying. Bare gray walls and dust, not a stitch of the usual pomp, everything was stark here. The hallways were deserted. She was its sole occupant.

The air was dead and cold. Integra clutched at her cloak as she wandered down a corridor. She thought that if she was not going to find her uncle and the Queen, she would at least very much like to find somewhere she could stay warm and rest her tired feet.

That was when she saw a door.

There was a mahogany door, at the end of the corridor. In the middle of nowhere. Integra blinked at it.

Was it just her, or had her cross become heavier?

_Should I or should I not go in?_

_(And in another story, Schneewittchen asked, should I or should I not eat this apple?)_

The door was open slightly. She peered in.

It was a large room. A library, judging by the presence of books and comfy armchairs, yet despite its size and function it was very dark. The only source of light was a single candle whose flame was flickering faintly. There were windows, but all were shrouded in thick velvet. Unable to understand this odd choice of interior, Integra crossed over to the nearest window and flung open the curtains.

The winter air and the white snow have a way of intensifying the brightness of light.

The sudden blast of sunshine was such that it nearly blinded her. She yelped and leapt back. A second later, there was a terrible scream.

Integra whipped around to see a black-haired boy on the floor, writhing in pain while clutching his eyes.

"The curtains!" he screamed. "Close the curtains!"

She did so immediately, and the room was enveloped in darkness once more. It did not seem to help the boy as quickly; he had stopped screaming but was still shielding his eyes and convulsing. Integra wasn't feeling much better either. God, what had just happened? Whoever heard of anyone reacting to sunlight like that? Her heart was pounding in her ears. After taking a few deep breaths, she gathered up her nerves and approached the boy.

She was almost afraid to touch him, because he looked so fragile. What little flesh she could see in the candlelight of his hands and neck told her he was far too thin to be healthy. Not to mention his skin was the palest white, a trait no doubt linked to his aversion to the sun. She was afraid that if she touched him he would collapse into dust.

Integra shook her head at the immature thought. People did not collapse into dust.

_Anyway, this situation is entirely my own bloody fault, _she thought. _I must do something. _She discarded the idea of running for help, knowing there was no one in the vicinity. What could she do, then, to make him comfortable?

Integra recalled how her father or Walter would pat her shoulder and whisper soothing words when she was hurt or ill, and decided to do the same to this strange, porcelain-like boy who was curled up in a ball and shaking so hard it was a miracle he had not fainted. She laid a tentative hand on him but nearly drew it back at once, startled. He was so cold.

_He must be really ill._

Her hand stayed put.

"Shh," she whispered, patting his shoulder. "It's alright. You'll be okay."

Under the steady beat of her hand and the softness of her voice she felt his shudders gradually lessen until he stilled. However, along with his calmness came a bit of tension, and Integra felt him stiffen at her prolonged touch. She could not blame him. She was, after all, a complete stranger.

"Are you feeling better now?"

There was no answer.

Since he was uneasy with her hand, Integra thought it would be wise to replace it with her cloak. Walter had always told her to stay warm when she was sick. She undid the fastenings and put it carefully around his shoulders. At first the boy hesitated, then pulled the cloth tighter around his self, burying his face in it. She smiled.

What next? She couldn't leave him on the floor, for sure.

"Do you think you can move?"

He remained silent. She sighed and bent down and gripped his arms. He flinched, but allowed himself to be slowly helped to his feet. Again she was afraid for him. His cold body gave her the chills, and she was glad to have given him her cloak, for it was obvious that he needed it much more than she did. She led him gently to one of the armchairs. "Sit here."

He did. Satisfied that he was settled, Integra took the chair opposite of him and waited patiently until he was willing to talk.

xx

Dracula was in shock.

He had retreated into his library to avoid the dratted sun, reaching for a book when he sensed someone in the room. He had turned, and had barely the chance to glimpse a small figure by a window when the curtains had opened and he was met with the full force of the afternoon sun.

Although he loathed it, sunlight was not fatal to him and for the most part he could bear it. Yet this time it had caught him unawares, and it had been excruciating. He had felt as if his eyes were burning in their sockets and his face was melting off.

He had thought it was his dear stepmother's doing. Perhaps she had ordered a child servant to sneak in and pull the prank. Very in character of her, to exploit weaklings to do her bidding, and of course she knew about his weakness. Heavens knows how many times she had abused it. And it had become hurriedly dark again, so he assumed that the servant must have dropped the curtains and ran away at his yells. Unfortunately, Dracula was in no mood for forgiveness. He was furious that he had been caught like this...well then. Fair was fair. If his stepmother was going to play in such a petty way then he was going to step up his game as well. Too bad for the young servant, it was his fault that he was stupid enough to follow orders from that miserable excuse of a witch. Dracula would hunt down the kid, kill him, and throw the carcass at the Queen's feet.

There was a rustle of movement, though, indicating he was not alone. Oh, had the servant not fled? Probably frozen in terror at realizing who he was, how pathetic. The prince smiled amidst his suffering. That made things much easier. He would just kill him then and there.

He prepared to spring, but his eyes failed him. His senses were numb. This would not do; he needed his wits about him if he wanted to do a proper disembowelment without staining the carpet. He tried to get a grip on himself but the shaking did not stop, and he had no idea when his eyesight would recover. So Dracula stayed on the floor, frustrated and murderous, when something happened that had utterly disarmed him.

A hand covered his right shoulder. A warm, soft hand...and did not let go.

"You'll be okay," a female voice murmured.

He certainly had not expected his assaulter to touch him. Or to be a girl.

Her hot breath washed over him pleasantly. She was patting his shoulder; the gesture was foreign to him and he could not discern its meaning. In spite of that he felt his body relax to the rhythm, calming him until the effects of his photosensitivity ebbed away. Unconsciously he leaned into her warmth.

He caught himself and stiffened. What did he think he was doing? What did _she _think she was doing?

So it was a girl. No matter. He would still kill her. Cut her down, starting with her hand that dare touch him with such familiarity—

That murder intent flew out of his mind at what the girl did next.

The hand left him—_Naturally_, Dracula sneered inwardly, unable to explain the pang in his heart—only to be replaced by a cloak which the girl gingerly placed on him. He allowed himself to be shocked as the cloth, heated to her body temperature and wonderfully, _gloriously_ warm, caressed his snowy skin as if it would melt it.

Maybe this was what a hug felt like. He wouldn't know. He had never been hugged before.

For the first time Dracula wondered who this girl was and why she was here. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers. It was made of fine cashmere, fit for a noble. But he had never seen her at social gatherings. If he had, he would have remembered her. She had a distinct scent that smelled like...he brought the garment to his nose and inhaled deeply. The redolence of rich tea, heavily drawn, with a feminine base, pervaded his senses. It was addictive. He was so enamored with it that he was barely aware that she had asked him a question, or that his legs were moving.

When he snapped back into the present he found himself in an armchair.

The room was silent save for the susurrus of the winter wind. He could feel her staring intently at him. He wished he could stare back, but he didn't want to give out his red eyes.

After a while he heard her mutter, "Doesn't this room have a fireplace?"

She must be cold. Of course she was cold. She had given him her cloak.

"Look behind you," he said.

"So you can speak!" she exclaimed, pleased. "How do you feel? No, wait, let me light the fire first, then we can talk."

He heard her slide off the cushion, take the candle and hurry over to the fireplace. While she busied herself with the logs, Dracula took his chance to peek through the flaps to study the girl.

She appeared a year or two younger than him with her small stature. With her back towards him, all he could see was her long, mellow blonde hair.

There was the crackle of fire devouring wood and her gratified huff, and firelight illuminated the place. It was when she had turned around to come back to him, that he saw her face. She had unconventionally dark skin and a sharp nose, perched upon which were round spectacles. Behind them were bright blue eyes. They were unwavering and pure as they gazed at him, as no others had ever been.

An unidentifiable fear seized him. He didn't think he could stand it if those eyes looked at him with repulsion like everybody else.

He pressed deeper into the clothing, so that she would never see his eyes, never see his face, and he wished it could remain that way forever, so her eyes would never be tainted.

From the fireplace, Integra watched the boy curl up in a fetal position. Before that she could have sworn she had seen a glint of red from under the cloak. Her brows furrowed.

She bypassed her seat and came to a halt before the boy. All that was visible was a mess of raven locks. She wanted to see what he looked like, but her cloak was fully drawn over him. Come to think of it, all along he had been almost desperately hiding his face, which initially she had attributed to his affliction but now suspected another reason. As though something was on it that he did not want to show. This only intensified Integra's curiosity and worry and she stooped down, confronting him.

"What's wrong?"

He twitched. "Nothing is wrong," replied the boy quickly, his voice muffled. "Please go away."

Integra was a bit hurt and irked that he was dismissing her so easily like this. She could understand that he was aloof with her since she was the cause of the problem, but honestly, she had not done it on purpose!

She let out a deep sigh. "I owe you an apology. I didn't know you were here. I should have checked to see if anyone was in the room before I did anything. I'm sorry."

If anything, her apology only seemed to upset him more. His voice was shaky when he answered, "That's fine, now go."

In another circumstance, Integra would have left. There was no use badgering someone who obviously did not want her company. But now she felt no desire to leave, she was more determined than ever to solve this mystery of the boy who had been in an abandoned wing of the castle, cold and alone.

"Excuse me, you have my cloak?" she pointed out dryly.

He didn't have an answer to that.

"Why won't you show me your face?"

He didn't have an answer to that, either.

"I'm not leaving until you tell me what is wrong."

"Why are you doing this?" the boy asked miserably. "Is it pity? If it is, I don't need it!" His tone turned venomous. "Leave!"

Integra bristled. "What on earth are you talking about? I'm only worried about you!"

He froze, as if what she had said had been beyond his wildest imaginings.

"Besides, you were hurt by my doing, and it is my responsibility to deal with the consequences of my actions," Integra continued coldly. "I'm just trying to help you, or are you going to say you don't need my help?"

The boy replied, very quietly, "Don't you know who I am?"

"No. And I want to know."

There was a long, dangerous silence.

"Is that what you want?"

She held her ground. "It is."

"Alright. Let's see how you react to this," he said.

And his face lunged out at her like a jack-in-the-box.

xx

xx

xx

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><p>Cliffhanger! Wait, no, don't throw those tomatoes at me! *ducks* Whew! Ah, it's been heady days for me. Was a real pain in the neck to write, this chapter. And yet, here we are. Finally the two meet! How did you like it? I hope I did young Integra's character justice.<p>

Thank you thank you thank you so much for your feedback! Please know that it means a lot to me. Cookies, chocolates, and teddy bears to all of you! See you next chapter.


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